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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409051" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Vision of Poesy - Part 02</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not winter yet, but that sweet time<br>In autumn when the first cool days are past;<br>A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime,<br>And some have dropped before the North wind's blast;<br>But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon,<br>The day hath all the genial warmth of June.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What slender form lies stretched along the mound?<br>Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow<br>Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round<br>Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now<br>Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then<br>Pores on each trivial object in its ken?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp<br>The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand;<br>Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp<br>Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned<br>The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks;<br>But the sweet dream has vanished! hush! he speaks!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Once more, once more, after long pain and toil,<br>And yet not long, if I should count by years,<br>I breathe my native air, and tread the soil<br>I trod in childhood; if I shed no tears,<br>No happy tears, 't is that their fount is dry,<br>And joy that cannot weep must sigh, must sigh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;These leaves, my boyish books in days of yore,<br>When, as the weeks sped by, I seemed to stand<br>Ever upon the brink of some wild lore --<br>These leaves shall make my bed, and -- for the hand<br>Of God is on me, chilling brain and breath --<br>I shall not ask a softer couch in death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Here was it that I saw, or dreamed I saw,<br>I know not which, that shape of love and light.<br>Spirit of Song! have I not owned thy law?<br>Have I not taught, or striven to teach the right,<br>And kept my heart as clean, my life as sweet,<br>As mortals may, when mortals mortals meet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Thou know'st how I went forth, my youthful breast<br>On fire with thee, amid the paths of men;<br>Once in my wanderings, my lone footsteps pressed<br>A mountain forest; in a sombre glen,<br>Down which its thundrous boom a cataract flung,<br>A little bird, unheeded, built and sung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;So fell my voice amid the whirl and rush<br>Of human passions; if unto my art<br>Sorrow hath sometimes owed a gentler gush,<br>I know it not; if any Poet-heart<br>Hath kindled at my songs its light divine,<br>I know it not; no ray came back to mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Alone in crowds, once more I sought to make<br>Of senseless things my friends; the clouds that burn<br>Above the sunset, and the flowers that shake<br>Their odors in the wind -- these would not turn<br>Their faces from me; far from cities, I<br>Forgot the scornful world that passed me by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> X</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Yet even the world's cold slights I might have borne,<br>Nor fled, though sorrowing; but I shrank at last<br>When one sweet face, too sweet, I thought, for scorn,<br>Looked scornfully upon me; then I passed<br>From all that youth had dreamed or manhood planned,<br>Into the self that none would understand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;She was -- I never wronged her womanhood<br>By crowning it with praises not her own --<br>She was all earth's, and earth's, too, in that mood<br>When she brings forth her fairest; I atone<br>Now, in this fading brow and failing frame,<br>That such a soul such soul as mine could tame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Clay to its kindred clay! I loved, in sooth,<br>Too deeply and too purely to be blest;<br>With something more of lust and less of truth<br>She would have sunk all blushes on my breast;<br>And -- but I must not blame her -- in my ear<br>Death whispers! and the end, thank God! draws near!&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hist! on the perfect silence of the place<br>Comes and dies off a sound like far-off rain<br>With voices mingled; on the Poet's face<br>A shadow, where no shadow should have lain,<br>Falls the next moment: nothing meets his sight,<br>Yet something moves betwixt him and the light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And a voice murmurs, &quot;Wonder not, but hear!<br>ME to behold again thou need'st not seek;<br>Yet by the dim-felt influence on the air,<br>And by the mystic shadow on thy cheek,<br>Know, though thou mayst not touch with fleshly hands,<br>The genius of thy life beside thee stands!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Unto no fault, O weary-hearted one!<br>Unto no fault of man's thou ow'st thy fate;<br>All human hearts that beat this earth upon,<br>All human thoughts and human passions wait<br>Upon the genuine bard, to him belong,<br>And help in their own way the Poet's song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;How blame the world? for the world hast thou wrought?<br>Or wast thou but as one who aims to fling<br>The weight of some unutterable thought<br>Down like a burden? what from questioning<br>Too subtly thy own spirit, and to speech<br>But half subduing themes beyond the reach</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Of mortal reason; what from living much<br>In that dark world of shadows, where the soul<br>Wanders bewildered, striving still to clutch<br>Yet never clutching once, a shadowy goal,<br>Which always flies, and while it flies seems near,<br>Thy songs were riddles hard to mortal ear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;This was the hidden selfishness that marred<br>Thy teachings ever; this the false key-note<br>That on such souls as might have loved thee jarred<br>Like an unearthly language; thou didst float<br>On a strange water; those who stood on land<br>Gazed, but they could not leave their beaten strand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Your elements were different, and apart --<br>The world's and thine -- and even in those intense<br>And watchful broodings o'er thy inmost heart,<br>It was thy own peculiar difference<br>That thou didst seek; nor didst thou care to find<br>Aught that would bring thee nearer to thy kind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Not thus the Poet, who in blood and brain<br>Would represent his race and speak for all,<br>Weaves the bright woof of that impassioned strain<br>Which drapes, as if for some high festival<br>Of pure delights -- whence few of human birth<br>May rightly be shut out -- the common earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;As the same law that moulds a planet, rounds<br>A drop of dew, so the great Poet spheres<br>Worlds in himself; no selfish limit bounds<br>A sympathy that folds all characters,<br>All ranks, all passions, and all life almost<br>In its wide circle. Like some noble host,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;He spreads the riches of his soul, and bids<br>Partake who will. Age has its saws of truth,<br>And love is for the maiden's drooping lids,<br>And words of passion for the earnest youth;<br>Wisdom for all; and when it seeks relief,<br>Tears, and their solace for the heart of grief.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Nor less on him than thee the mysteries<br>Within him and about him ever weigh --<br>The meanings in the stars, and in the breeze,<br>All the weird wonders of the common day,<br>Truths that the merest point removes from reach,<br>And thoughts that pause upon the brink of speech;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXIV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;But on the surface of his song these lie<br>As shadows, not as darkness; and alway,<br>Even though it breathe the secrets of the sky,<br>There is a human purpose in the lay;<br>Thus some tall fir that whispers to the stars<br>Shields at its base a cotter's lattice-bars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Even such my Poet! for thou still art mine!<br>Thou mightst have been, and now have calmly died,<br>A priest, and not a victim at the shrine;<br>Alas! yet was it all thy fault? I chide,<br>Perchance, myself within thee, and the fate<br>To which thy power was solely consecrate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Thy life hath not been wholly without use,<br>Albeit that use is partly hidden now;<br>In thy unmingled scorn of any truce<br>With this world's specious falsehoods, often thou<br>Hast uttered, through some all unworldly song,<br>Truths that for man might else have slumbered long.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;And these not always vainly on the crowd<br>Have fallen; some are cherished now, and some,<br>In mystic phrases wrapped as in a shroud,<br>Wait the diviner, who as yet is dumb<br>Upon the breast of God -- the gate of birth<br>Closed on a dreamless ignorance of earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;And therefore, though thy name shall pass away,<br>Even as a cloud that hath wept all its showers,<br>Yet as that cloud shall live again one day<br>In the glad grass, and in the happy flowers,<br>So in thy thoughts, though clothed in sweeter rhymes,<br>Thy life shall bear its flowers in future times.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Timrod">Henry Timrod</a><div class=q>
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It is not winter yet, but that sweet time
In autumn when the first cool days are past;
A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime,
And some have dropped before the North wind's blast;
But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon,
The day hath a..."></div>
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